Caraphernelia
by scarletglory
Summary: What if I can't forget you? Oneshot.


**A/N: **Inspired by the song of the same name by Pierce the Veil (ft. Jeremy McKinnon of A Day to Remember, which is basically all I listen to nowadays) and also by Worlds Apart by Silverstein. You can tell that whenever Christian is away, my main source of inspiration comes from music.

_Caraphernelia [definition according to Urban Dictionary]: A broken-hearted disease whenever someone leaves you but leaves all their things behind._

The thing is, though, the guy named the "condition" after his ex-girlfriend. So I'm not really certain if I should go with it or...yeah, Randyphernelia doesn't really sound okay. ANYWAYS. Angsty Chrandy is angsty. I couldn't help myself. (Also: I don't do well with anything that isn't cheesy sap. I will turn my head as you all flee.) Warning: OOC-ness, a bit AU (seeing as they were never wrestlers), past slash relationship, and swear words.

**Caraphernelia **

Upon exiting his house, he is met with oblivious gray clouds that envelope the sky entirely. Instead of typical dreary thoughts of the foreboding weather, however, what goes through his mind when he sees them is a memory. He is reminded of past cold, steel eyes and it almost overwhelms him when he recognizes that they are not as familiar as they used to be.

(They had been warm and bright at some time, and he once had the pleasure of looking into them every day, but he does not acknowledge these facts. He's trying to forget the things worth remembering because, after all, there is only so much subsequent regret and mournful longing and pain he can submit himself to.)

The small raindrop landing on his cheek awakes him from his melancholic relapse and he heads back inside to grab an umbrella from behind the door, ignoring the extra and the reason why it's there. He relocks the dead bolt and descends the front steps. The rain steadily begins to fall heavier as he strolls along the street.

He decides to forgo the protection; his hair already soaked and work suit sopping. He, unthinkingly, leaves it on a bench while waiting for the subway train. When he finds a seat he realizes this and thinks _oh well, at least there's only one now._

When his boss, amongst a very high number of his colleagues, asks him about why he's dripping wet and why he didn't carry an umbrella, he fakes a rueful grin, and says "I was in such a rush I forgot it."

He's only half-lying.

The rest of the day, not unlike most, passes exasperatingly slowly. The clock seems to delay more and more each time he looks at it, so when this finally frustrates him, he makes it a point not to face it anymore. This unsurprisingly and dishearteningly does not make time move any faster. He buries himself in his paperwork and tries hard not to think about the irony of the clock that's now residing in the waste bin.

He comes home and it's quiet.

The silence can be, for one that's constantly bothered by noise, relieving at most times. He understands why, he's been there before; sound is severely notorious for causing headaches and stress and he, being the incessant worrier he is, has previously fallen victim to such cruel acts against humanity it takes part in.

This time instead of relishing it, he drowns it out. He leaves the TV in the living room on, though he very much prefers lounging in his home-office, and keeps the radio in the kitchen playing as an afterthought. He sings along to songs he hasn't heard before (which is exactly as amusing as it sounds) and converses with the people behind the television screen as if they could hear him. Afterwards he lies in bed, sans comforting clamour, using the lack of interruption to help him listen to his thoughts.

They lead back to early that morning, after his black coffee and burnt toast and before his commute to work, settling in between – the daunting clouds reappearing before his eyes as he unwillingly remembers.

Before they can materialize into other, more insensible things, he grabs his iPod from the nightstand and quickly inserts the buds into his ears, turning up the volume louder than what's necessary.

He falls asleep listening to In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida and his unusually peaceful snores can't express his gratitude enough.

This gets him through the next day, the weekend, and the week after that. He doesn't think of clouds or umbrellas or what they are symbolic of during that time. He keeps himself distracted with work, friends, and his mother. (Who, upon arriving for supper at his house on Thursday, does not treat him any differently – i.e. with pity.) He loves her and she loves him and she can't walk away from that.

Other people can, though, and that night he kisses her goodbye after dropping her off at her own home across town and stares at the setting sun from the corner of the avenue.

It brings warmth and radiance and beauty, but, quite literally, at the end of the day it has to leave eventually. Someone else is in need of that provision – that company – and he almost groans in agony when this experience brings him to the revelation that his life is slowly becoming a fuck load of cliché metaphors.

He drives away, sighing.

While doing laundry the following Saturday he encounters a shirt that makes his insides clench in reflex. The black material is marked with a white Smashing Pumpkins logo and on the right sleeve there's a small tear from when it got caught on the wiring of a fence during an impromptu basketball game. He shrinks back, afraid, wondering _where did this come from? Why now? _But eventually grabs it, subconsciously massaging the fabric in his hands.

He feels himself relax enough to finish the rest of the laundry and sits with the shirt in the den, not looking at it, but feeling. The touch is comforting, more than what he would have initially thought it would be, and he fights with the urge to wear it to bed.

The shirt neatly folded, he places it on the top shelf of his closet.

He wonders if it still smells like him, even after four weeks and possibly two or three washings.

He doesn't let himself ponder that for too long.

Over the next couple of months he finds more tiny but significant objects lying around the house. Despite the baggage, the memories, the purpose of each one, he finds something else in them, too. A feeling close to cherishment – the yo-yo he plays with, the Godzilla stuffed-animal he places next to his bed, and when he discovers the book about magicians he never got to finish, he spends several evenings reading intently.

The more domestic items, however, he tosses away with disdain and desolation. (They make him realize how close they were to moving in together and... every time he recollects this, his heart aches unbearably.) The toothbrush, the pairs of socks that aren't his, the grocery lists he never got around to throwing out are all first to go. He also rids of the preferred brand of condiments _he _had always insisted they bought, a few other little things going along with them.

When he's finished this process, he is thoroughly proud of himself and for once, thinks that maybe he can finally move on.

He goes out on three dates within the next fortnight, and though he doesn't expect them to turn into anything serious, he's trying and meeting great people while doing so; including A.J, a small but firecracker-y young woman, Maryse, an extremely attractive French-Canadian, and Phil, a hilarious but pathologically cynical guy he met at the local comic book store.

Needless to say, things are going well, and for the first time in several months, he can say that he is genuinely happy.

But one night, when he's reorganizing his photo albums for no particular reason, he stumbles upon a picture he hasn't seen for nearly a year and, being reminded once again of how different things used to be, he finally breaks.

It's him and Randy, posing four different times ala photo booth signature, and it's so fucking excruciating to look at because it's also very sweet. But when something as sweet does not exist anymore, you're always mourning that fact – especially if there was no mutualism in the ending; especially if it was you that had been left.

It had been months since it happened, but the mementos of their relationship he was finding here and there were gradually healing him. They had all been small, he'd been able to look at them, feel them, _remember_, at least for a little while. And that would make him feel better.

But this. This was like ripping off a Band-Aid. It _hurt_.

Grabbing an unoccupied box from his attic, he takes everything that's ever reminded him of Randy, of _them_ together – the shirt, the yo-yo, the book, the picture – everything, and briskly stuffs them all into it. He then tapes it up, with shaky hands and labored breathing, and sits back on his heels, examining his work.

There they are – the remaining fragments of his and Randy's relationship that have been haunting him since their break-up. He can't believe that, like the memories in his head, they can be packed into such a small space. Such sentimental things, meaningful things...and they, as pieces, were a part of something even more meaningful; broken, but meaningful.

He almost chokes on his sheer anger and sorrow.

"Marker," he mutters absently, and leaves the room to find one. He comes back with a permanent in hand and sits down next to the box, thinking.

Then, slowly, he scrawls the words: "what's left" on every side.

It takes him a good few weeks to decide what to do with it. During that time it stays on his bedroom floor, eerie but solid.

He mails it. The letter he gets in response, containing what he guesses is an apology or something among the lines, he returns to sender, unopened, and precedes trying to forget; charring memories in the fires of a burning resurgence.


End file.
